Tsunami Hits Boweltown

This is the IT department from the Heisse Scheisse Corp. informing all stockholders that the main server has been wiped out by the great boweltown tsunami and will be down for 3-5 days. We are very sorry for the inconvenience.



Every computer in Jens house has crashed. This is her loving brother explaining the ungodly like silence. Things should be up by Tuesday but by then she should have some much backed up in her head she might have brain damage.

Ugg-lies

Taking Sparky to the train station at 5:30 in the morning makes me think of one thing.

I'm REALLY grateful that my brother keeps me in Uggs because it is damn cold out and my toesies would freeze.

Now I just need an Ugg for my nose.

Girls Weekend

What is it?
The Girls Weekend is a small low-key weekend for girls only.

Who can go?
Girls. Only. Expat or German, we don’t discriminate as long as you don’t mind the expats bashing your fatherland occasionally. Oh and Sparky, who plays our Butler for the weekend. Please refer to him as James. Extra credit for a British accent.
No kids (unless they are in utero) or husbands. I have nothing against either, but its called “The Girls Weekend” for a reason

What do you do?
Nothing. We don’t do more than move from room-to-room to eat, drink and talk. Lots of talking, lots and lots of talking. We don’t go sight seeing. We don’t really leave the house. .

When is it?
Well that depends. I’m shooting for March. One of those weekends that works for the women who want to go.
I’m offering a two-night stay for those brave enough to endure two day of doing nothing or for those traveling from a longer distance that want to make the most of the weekend. Last year everyone came in Saturday afternoon and left Sunday afternoon and for me it didn’t seem like long enough. However, I don’t have kids waiting/needing me and my husband was here so that might be different for you. The option is open.

Where is it?
My place in Boweltown. Boweltown is almost in the center of Germany, by Frankfurt (not Frankfurt-Hahn). I’ll e-mail you more specific information, but I’d rather not put that kind of stuff out here for the masses.

Why at your place?
Because I have a big place, no kids, a butler (Sparky), and I’ve offered. If you’d like to host it, please feel free!

Does it cost anything?
Just your train ticket and the hotel costs if you want to stay at the hotel-like place down the street. You are of course welcome to stay at my place. We have two inflatable queen size beds, one sofa, one chaise, part of a carpeted floor and a ton of hardwood floor.

Are you a serial killer or something of that nature?
No, but I’m not sure I’d be real honest about it if I was. I do come with references. Plenty of expats (and other people) know me in real life and I will give you all my real info so loved ones can come searching if need be. Also, I’m very happy to share my “how to avoid a serial killer” expertise.

Is it fun?
Well, that depends on your idea of fun. We eat a lot. I’ll make sangria and cosmos (plus loads of other good drinkie things) if you are into the drinking thing. I have plenty for the non-drinkie drinkers. And we do a LOT of talking. I’ve found that expat women, especially women who miss girlfriends and talking to people face-to-face have a lot to say. So again, we talk a lot. And to answer the question, I have loads of fun.

What do I wear?
Dude. It’s so low-key. I think last year Mausi and I didn’t change out of our yoga pants until it was time to go.

My husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/mother/father/preacher man is really worried about me staying with strangers. Any suggestions?
Yes. Down the street is a hotel-like establishment. Last year, Claire stayed there for exactly this reason. Sparky provides transportation to and fro, if needed. Will provide details if you e-mail me.

If I take a train, how do I get to your place?
Sparky can/will pick you up at the nearest train station. You are welcome to take a taxi, walk or fly if you prefer.

How will I know its Sparky and not some freak picking me up at the train station?
One, Sparky’s picture is ALL over this blog, you should be able to recognize him.
Two, this year he will be wearing a Lady Bug Apron for the Pick-up in case you don’t recognize his face.

Well, I’d love to go, but I have to run 6 miles every morning, can I do this there?
Of course. There are trails all over our backyard. We have a large backyard. We also have protected areas that are trail covered as well. Please do not expect me to join you.

Anything Else I Should Know?
I have two cats. One of them is really allergic-y to those who are allergic to cats. Mausi took some sort of wonder drug last year and seemed to be fine. Scrunchy and Kiska are scaredy cats and don’t usually come out when strangers are here. If you are afraid of cats, have no fear.

Any and all conversations are confidential unless otherwise noted at time of conversation. What happens in Boweltown on Girls Weekend, Stays in Boweltown on Girls Weekend, meaning you are free to talk about whatever you want without risk of Internet gossip reports unless of course it involves serial killers or ass. Obviously, my sangria recipe is included in this confidentiality agreement.

I have a filthy mouth so I will most definitely be using language inappropriate for children under 18. I think last year the topic of ass came up. If you are a bit on the Victorian side, just be forewarned. Please come, but don’t be afraid if they come up.

Let me know if you are coming and have food allergies so I don’t inadvertently kill you. I make mostly finger food and stuff that’s easy to prepare beforehand so I can spend as much time talking and as little time cooking. Last year it was nachos, quesadillas, and panninis for lunch/dinner. Pillsbury (pop in the oven) croissants and rolls and teas, coffee, and juice.sort of thing for breakfast.

Okay, ladies, I think I’ve covered it. Let me know if you have any other questions. If you’re interested, let me know what dates you’re available and we’ll take it from there.

Brotherly Love

In my Inbox this morning from Jeffy. If we lived closer to each other, no doubt I would wake up one morning to 37 trees in my yard.

ALLENTOWN, Pa. - When Carol Lopez let her Labrador retriever out for the morning the dog had an unusual number of tree trunks to attend to. Surrounding her aboveground backyard pool Lopez found 37 used Christmas trees.

"I had just woke up and boom, they're there and that's it," Lopez said Thursday.

Whoever put the trees there apparently took their time, neatly organizing and standing the trees upright.

Lopez said she called Allentown police, and an officer told her to call the city to have the trees removed. A city employee told her husband to drag the trees out of the backyard and they would be picked up free of charge, she said.

Lopez said she didn't know how someone climbed a tall wooden fence surrounding the yard, or got all the trees over it.

"People just don't have anything better to do," Lopez said. "That's someone who had time on their hands." ---------------------------
Copyright 2007 AP

Mother-in-Law, Oven Mitts and my Dad

  “Congratulations, Jennifer! For cleaning your house so spotlessly, you’ve become a big winner. Bob, tell her what she’s won!”

“Well Jennifer, for cleaning so tirelessly, for never getting bored of the mind-numbing organization and surviving on only a few hours sleep at a time, for not ripping the remote out of your beloved’s hand as he channel surfed all eff-ing night, you’ve won an afternoon with your mother-in-law! You are one lucky Hausfrau!”

“Oh, Bob. That is just fantastic. Thank you! Thank You! Thank You!” she giggled manically, laughter echoing in the hallways as she lost all hold on reality.

Last night Sparky and I had another one of our cleaning fits. For me it’s really this sleepless state of mind. The night before last, the term MF-er was muttered every hour until about 3 am when I finally quit fighting it and instructed Sparky to stop flipping the channels, put on Gilmore Girls and go to EFF-ING SLEEP. No sooner did the opening credits start to roll then Sparky started to snore and I was up for the rest of the EFF-ING night.

Gilmore Girls is Sparky’s Ambien. Me? I need the real deal.

When I’m like this, I need to do something and since Mim still hasn’t taught me to knit, I organize. Sleep deprivation is a lot like being high for me, except nothing seems as funny. I lack that creativity that makes one think that peanut butter is proof there is a god and if I’m not careful, anxiety comes for a visit so I have to stay busy as a form of self preservation.

For Sparky, this binge might have more to do with the delivery and installation of our new TV. What started out as MY insistance that we get a small, inexpensive TV for the bedroom with a sleep timer turned into a 42” HDTV plasma and an appointment with our wall/painter man to skillfully hide all the cords inside the wall. (You know the wall that was just repaired in the room that was just repainted in October. Its okay, though, because our painter will just take of it when he comes to repair the bathroom ceiling due to water damage from our upstairs neighbor.)

Anyway, this bout of cleanliness prompted Sparky to invite Mutti-lein over. Our house is clean, therefore I have nothing to fear as the schlumf American daughter-in-law.

This prompted me to bake the coffee cake we will have this afternoon. Mutti brings the coffee and I make the cake. (My coffee sucks but my cobbler rules.)

In the process of making this coffee cake I had to use my new oven mitts, which got me thinking about my dad.

There is no one happier that I have learned to cook than my dad. It might be because the first meal I made him, scrambled eggs, had to be sipped through a straw and he’s hoping never to have to repeat that experience.

My dad can cook, but he doesn’t because my step-mom is something of a gourmet. My sister can cook, my step-dad can cook and even my brother can cook. My mom couldn’t. Her philosophy was why waste the time and patience when you could just marry a man who enjoyed cooking. I totally agreed with this. Until I moved to Germany, my claim to fame was being able to cook anything that took seven minutes or less.

I can make a mean Mac and cheese. The secret being keeping it on the stove to stir in the powdered cheese. That way the cheese dissolves better. You must eat it before it gets cold, though. I can microwave with the best of them evidenced by the 7-second ice cream hit. Seven seconds softens, but doesn’t melt, one pint of chunky ice cream perfectly.

My attempts at “real” cooking were mediocre at best. However, I have always had one true blue fan. My dad. He has eaten everything I ever made for him, no matter how disgusting.

I once attempted spanakopita (my ambition hindered only by my complete lack of skill) as an appetizer for Thanksgiving. My cold, greasy, white lumps bared no resemblance to spanakopita save for I called it spanakopita. My step-mom didn’t even flinch. She greeted me and my offering warmly and even set it on the sideboard with the rest of the appetizers.

My dad was the only one brave enough to try it. He ate two pieces and told me it was delicious.

The next year, they requested that I bring mixed nuts.

Upon my move to Krautland and the subsequent change of my name, I started to cook more. As Leonardo’s Mac and Cheese is not readily available at Aldi, Rewe or Kaufland, I had to actually learn to cook. I mean from scratch, using a cookbook.

No one was more encouraging than my dad.

I was 7, my dad gave me my first cookbook. I was 19 when I got my second. This was prompted by 27 phone calls one Thanksgiving that ended with an unstuffed-gizzard/organ-bag-intact cold turkey and gravy the consistency of concrete and burgers from MacDonald’s. He still loves to tell that story.

This last trip home was the week after my third successful Thanksgiving. Like a real cook, I had the burns to prove it. My dad, however, was horrified by a particularly bad burn on the inside of my forearm.

The funny part of this is that I’ve had burns from spent ammo cartridges ricocheting down my blouse. I’ve slammed my thumb in the hammer of a gun so hard as to have my thumbnail fall off. I have caught the tender skin between my thumb and forefinger in the slide of a 9mm that bled profusely and let me tell you that hurt like a son of a bitch. His response? He told me to, and I quote, “Man up, Jennifer! Man up.” How does a burn from the oven send him in to protective mode i don't know.

To that end, my dad bought me oven mitts. Thirteen inch oven mitts that cover my arms up to the elbows. I feel like that 6 year old when I wear these because they are so big. I also feel loved and protected even though my dad is 6000 miles away.

This morning as I was safely pulling out my coffee cake, (a recipe my step-mom gave me,) I thought about him. Later, I used my fingers to pluck chocolate croissants off the cookie sheet and burned the back of my hand on the oven door.

A New York Times Trifecta

What Shamu Taught Me About a Happy Marriage

Ladies, I'm going to try this out and let you know. Granted Sparky is not an American Husband, but I think it can work with a Kraut. What do you think?

(I'm looking beyond my intense dislike of Orcas by leaving the author's title. If you have ever seen The Blue Planet, you will never think of Shamu as a sweet trainable whale again. Killer whales are up there with the Swiss as far as I'm concerned.)

If you don't like that article, there's this one: Help, I’m Surrounded by Jerks

And if that one doesn't do it for you, try this one: 51% of Women Are Now Living Without Spouse...

Master of my Own Domestic Pain

'Member when I said jet lag was over? Well Jet Lag reads my blog and decided it was too soon to be over him and kicked our asses with a vengeance. I’ve been getting up early and cleaning the house, I mean really cleaning from bathroom cupboards to closets to my desk area which is where everything ends up as its one of the few areas I can take off Sparky’s hand for getting too touchy feely with my stuff.

I’m doing every single brain dead chore I can think of in my stupor. The problem is Sparky. Jet Lag knows he’s the weak link. He loves to nap and has no self-discipline against the call of the freshly made snuggly bed. I can actually fall asleep around midnight. As I only usually need 6 hours, max, I’d be in pretty good shape by now. Sparky can’t. Even though he’s back at work, even though he’s had to be "on" since the day after we got back, come midnight, he’s wide awake and very talkative. Those damn naps. As soon as I pass that magic “I can sleep” window, I’m up until the wee hours.

Last night it was an improvement, only 4 am as opposed to 6 am. Then I was up to take The Talking Man to the train station at 8 am. That's his superhero power. He foils the bad guys by talking them into a stupor in the middle of the night.

New Topic sans Seque

I need a waxing place. You know, hair removal via wax. I can’t find one and I want it. So if anyone knows of a place in any of the following cities, I’m there frequently enough to satisfy some of my masochistic needs: Hamburg, Berlin, Frankfurt, or Düsseldorf. Or any of the surrounding areas. Please. I’ve tried the home waxing thing and I’m here to tell you, not only does it not work; its more than my very high tolerance for pain can bear. I can do the front of my calves and that’s about it. To add insult to injury, I end up walking around for days sticking to things one does not want to stick to.

Also, if anyone knows of a place I can get a mani/pedi in these areas, I would offer lunch, a mani/pedi and a whole lot of girl talk in gratitude. I’m not talking about the medical kind for old ladies with icky feet. I’m talking about the nice footbath, foot rub and color application, perhaps a paraffin treatment. Something so I don’t become one of those old ladies needing a medical foot treatment.

Please.

I do not go into that dark night of hausfrau grooming gently.

Okay, as my brain is really refusing to work correctly, I’ll go back to cleaning out my laundry room.

P.S. I’m going to start organizing that Girls weekend. Please let me know if you’re interested. Chris-AEinD, I can count you in, right?

P.S.S. The kitty pic is by Anne Arkham. She doesn't seem to be currently writing, but she's really funny. Anne Arkham

My Brother is a Better Man

My brother left a ton of clothing at my step-dad’s house. Jeff is skinnier and taller than Sparky, but because Sparky is more muscley and shorter, they end up about the same size. (Living with Markus may have skewed my idea of what a grown man looks like, but my brother reminds me of a grown up nine year old). Sparky ended up with a ton of new clothes that Jeff left behind

As I was packing up to leave, Jeff went back over all the great finds Sparky snagged. He started to get a little sad that the fantastic Kenneth Cole slacks were leaving, as were a few great sweaters. I explained that giving a German nice clothes was like feeding the hungry. It didn’t really hurt him and it was doing the world a great favor.

However, I am not as nice as Jeff.

I have a ton of clothing in American size 26/28 or 3X-4X. As I have lost two Kylies or one Hamish since last year, they don’t fit anymore. I have cashmere and 2 new pairs of jeans, a few sweaters and some blouses. Everything is in great condition.

So, as I don’t want to donate cashmere to a Kraut, if there is anyone who could use this stuff, let me know and I’ll send it along.

Starring Sleep Deprivation as Mother's Little Helper

Jet lag is O-vah. Finally.

Yesterday Sparky and I headed off to Strasbourg to pick up the elusive toilet seat, an éclair and a quiche. Having been up since 3 am, it was relatively easy to start off at 7 am.

On our way back, we went TV shopping, had lunch with a very tired Hamish (also suffering), picked up the newly purchased TV, went home and cleaned and organized and vacuumed in some sort of speed-like fugue until midnight when the magic spell broke and we both dropped like the dead into our well made bed in our clean, clean room.

Phew. All that crap that somehow ends up in my suitcase has found a home. Even the gag gifts we got in our Christmas stockings.

So now it’s back to the regularly scheduled program.

The cats really missed us. I mean REALLY missed us. Scrunchy, who was named Zorro for our entire vacation because Mutti, who generously cared for our Christmas orphans, could not remember his name, has not left my side. Kiska, who was named Munzele, follows us around begging for touches and loves. She ate so much she looks like she swallowed an American football. Scrunchy resembles Tony Soprano he ate so much. And boy did Mutti love them.

I’m up and dressed and ready to go. I’m wearing my new GBF cashmere sweater, my new skinny jeans and my new j.crew slippers. I feel so preppy and peppy. Shaun lost a ton of weight and gave me his old cashmere, which I feel is only appropriate since he was the one to introduce me to cashmere.

I have to go ride this energy wave as there is still a ton left to do and god only knows how long it will last and this post sucks.

Side of the Road

So I’m back and we hit the tarmac running. We arrived at SFO on Monday morning to check in for a flight that we were scheduled to take Sunday. I wrote it down wrong on all three of my calendars and being the one that organized our lives, Sparky assumed I was on top of it.

When our plane took off on Sunday, I was blissfully unaware, sitting with my brother, dad and step-mom (Sparky, of course) playing a board game and anticipating the baked ziti that was scenting up the joint.

Monday, well, we flew standby and managed to get seats across from each other and since flying standby, they throw your luggage in last, we got our luggage first in Frankfurt.

Picked up the cats and in my jet lag high, decided to unpack everything immediately. Halfway through, I crashed and now the house is covered from wall to wall with stuff.

Sparky is on his way to Hamburg for the rest of the week. Talk about an abrupt stop to a wickedly good time.

I’ll probably not write about my first two weeks as I was unchaperoned and any/ all things I say can and will be used against me. Lets just say it was the best two weeks I’ve had in at least five years. There might have been a karaoke moment, but alas, that was wiped from the camera.

I was waxed, buffed, coiffed, manicured and pedicured until I remembered who I was. I shopped until I could see her in the mirror. I had a few cigarettes and a few more cocktails until I wit and humor joined me. And I laughed and smiled and played and laughed some more. Language came back to me as did joy.

I discovered that I drive much better when I can flip people off.

I was free in a way I never knew I couldn’t be. Does that make sense?

Sparky came out and we reconnected. He’s been working so much and traveling all the time we barely recognized each other save for my disillusionment and his exhaustion. Seven days of rediscovering each other in the place we discovered each other. It was necessary and wonderful.

My dad took us shooting and whereas Jeff kicked my ass, I kicked Sparky’s. It felt good to be good at something again.

Mim came home from school and the whirlwind continued.

Why is there never enough time in California and endless amounts in Germany?

Coming back was/is hard this time. However, I have a plan and that plan includes, drumroll please… a job. Yes, this lady of leisure needs something to do and people to do it with. I know, I know. But let me just say, this leisure gig isn’t all its cracked up to be.

More on that later. I have to go hang up clothes and make lists.

Oh and in case you missed just how magical a time I had in SF, I ate everything I wanted, denied myself nothing, worked out halfheartedly and still lost fifteen pounds. See what I mean. Magic.

Dinner at my GBF's house. All photos courtesy of The Buglet who is not in any photos because he was too busy taking the photos.

     

Dad and Stepmom; my competition for Parental Love; Sweet sister Mim; Sparky and I up on Twin Peaks

        

Cayucos, CA: A freakin' long drive from anywhere, but it was beautiful as only a cali beach can.

        

Jeff's Roommate

  

Mt Diablo

        

siblings can only hold a pose for so long before they start fighting

  

Christmas Morning